Maniacs and Men
by Hutchie
Summary: A meeting fic that takes place during "Broken Reeds," this time from Doyle's POV.  First Impressions #2


**Written for a challenge on the "Discovered in a LJ" comm. **

**With massive thanks to my beta, ****inlovewithboth****.**

_Notes: probably not completely canon compliant._

**First Impressions #2—Doyle's POV**

**Maniacs and Men**

by Allie

When the news came that CI5 was interested in recruiting him, Doyle wanted to laugh. He felt a familiar stab in the heart when he remembered how that had been one of his last words to his partner, about wanting to join CI5. Shortly after that, Syd Parker died. Due to Doyle's negligence, in not giving him backup.

Well, he turned and hit the punching bag a few more times. His superiors weren't too fond of him since the whistle-blowing incident, but they liked having him as the top ranked boxer in his weight class. Consequently, the dirty work they assigned him, during the times when he wasn't allowed to do undercover drugs work, was along the line of boring filing with plenty of time for training.

Nobody wanted to lose their champion, even if on the personal level, they'd have liked to dunk his head in the toilet and flush. Several times.

Even as long as he'd been in the police force, it still surprised him sometimes that people would want to protect corruption instead of excising it. Syd Parker hadn't been like that. He'd have been on Doyle's side, Doyle was sure. But no one had been for a long time, and he didn't expect it anymore.

It seemed ironic that his childish, selfish plans for advancement were now coming true, long after he'd given up such delusions. It was true that he'd thrown himself into the job, even more after Syd died. He'd had a whirlwind arrest record before, but after that it became even more personal, as if he had to hunt down criminals for two instead of one. Recklessness took over, a feeling that if he could just run hard enough, catch enough villains, go far enough undercover and bust the lot of them, he could somehow make up for everything. Make up for a certain death he hadn't been able to prevent, for instance.

It hadn't worked, of course. It had even got him in trouble with the whole force ("Who's a rat now, Doyle?"), when he testified in the corruption case.

Things had been hot since. Really hot, sometimes. Got him into a few fights. But not many, because not only could he hold his own and dole out some punishing blows, but they couldn't really risk letting their boxer get hurt. At least, not outside the ring. So his superiors, the crawlers, made sure everyone knew he wasn't allowed to be taught a lesson the old fashioned way.

So they chose other, littler ways. It had been a long time since he was used to anybody _not_ giving him the cold shoulder. He was used to it, didn't care anymore. At least, he told himself that.

But sometimes his temper flared, for instance if someone grabbed the last cup of coffee before he could get it just to spite him, or hid all the towels at the shower. Then he had to dash naked and wet for his locker, and dry off with an old shirt or two, if he had any handy, or get changed still wet if he hadn't.

Little things like that. And yes, once in a while he lost it and tried to smash somebody's face in. He got in trouble for that, but never enough to get too many black marks on his record; they needed him for the stupid boxing.

In the ring, he could let some of his awful darkness and anger out. But he had to be careful; if he really let go, he lost all sense of the game and went at it like a maniac. Then he either ended up in trouble for breaking the rules, or got taken down by a savvy opponent who was less overcome by emotion.

So far, he'd managed to keep the balancing act most of the time—fierce and ferocious, without losing control—and he'd kept his spot at the top. It kept him on the force, so far, even when he lost his temper. Though in his view his work undercover on drugs cases was far more valuable, he didn't think that would've kept him here long. No, it was boxing—a game—that seemed to catch the attention of those who made the decisions.

And now apparently he'd caught somebody else's attention, what with CI5.

He didn't seriously consider turning them down, though his first thought was that he should, as penance for Syd, because he'd been daydreaming of just such a career move in his partner's last minutes of life, had he but known it.

But there was no future here on the force, and there might be in CI5.

They might even let him do something really dangerous.

#

First day on the test, wouldn't you know it, some jerk stole the parking spot Doyle was headed for. The man gave him a definite smirk, got out of his car, and strode inside with an arrogant stride. Doyle pulled into another parking spot feeling unexpectedly rattled and angry. He was used to this sort of thing at work—but not here. This was supposed to be a fresh start, not more of the same schoolyard politics and babyish stunts. Arse.

He kept an eye on the jerk for the rest of the day, sizing him up. The man was decidedly too arrogant, needed taken down a peg or two. He stood head and shoulders above everyone in most of the tests Mr. Cowley assigned.

When Doyle beat him at the handguns test, the man not only looked shocked, but fiercely angry. He covered it quickly enough with an expressionless face, but that didn't conceal his stance of anger. It was easy to see that he'd expected to walk away as the best at everything. That briefly made Doyle want to beat him at other things, too.

When the assault course started, of course Mr. Muscle-man pulled ahead seemingly effortlessly. Doyle's eyes narrowed, but he was determined to go about this the smart way, not just dash ahead like an idiot because he wanted to show that bloke. It obviously didn't matter—just another jerk. Certainly no need to take it personally.

_Just do the best you can,_ he told himself. _Test yourself against yourself, because no one else is a worthy opponent anyway._

This philosophy had helped him in some ways—when he could follow it. It helped him improve by testing his fitness only against what he was capable of and working to increase that level. But it also never let him feel content with whatever he did achieve.

By the time he made it over the first obstacle, he was fourth in place, the mud was quite churned up, and he sank to his hips. Grimacing, he waded out of the pit. Lovely obstacle they'd created. But there was no avoiding it—if you did, you'd be cheating.

Then again—Cowley had said something about using your brain. As he ran, and climbed, and crawled across the course, Doyle chewed at the notion, amusing himself with the thought that avoiding the obstacles and even 'cheating' would actually mean winning in Cowley's book. Not proving your physical worth—but proving your sneakiness, your ability to think outside the normal lines.

He struggled through the parts he found difficult, but keeping fit for boxing (and of course with his martial arts training), gave him an edge, and he soon found himself pulling ahead of the others, especially on the sprints and the dexterity sections. Ironically, he was catching up to Mr. Muscle-man without putting too much thought into it.

He felt a little jump of adrenaline and grinned when he saw the man ahead, ploughing forward like a steam locomotive, but all the same, closer and closer as Doyle closed the distance. Maybe Doyle would be showing Mr. Arrogant up after all...

That all ended with the gunshots. It happened so quickly. He dropped to the mud, instantly, flat on his face, leaving barely a pocket of air to breathe. His back crawled with the knowledge that bullets flew over him. He could be killed in an instant if the man saw him.

But this charmed life Doyle had led—surviving so long in dangerous spots—made him look up, and begin to judge his course of attack. Mr. Muscle-man was shouting something from back there, but Doyle paid it no mind. It was Doyle or the gunman, and there were civilians around. It was his job, wasn't it?

Rocks flew: a distraction. Muscle-man was helping him, eh? Great! Just the distraction. Well, unless someone had an armoured tank division handy; this maniac was on his second gun already.

Doyle sprang to his feet and dashed for him. The mud hampered him, but he was still fast. What hampered him more were the maniac's reflexes. The instant Doyle popped from the mud and began to run, Maniac whirled, aimed off two rounds, and began screaming, "You're dead!"

Doyle expected to go down with a sharp bloom of pain, then feel the relief and release of death. But he didn't, just kept barrelling forward. He aimed a kick at the man's head.

Which was blocked. Easily.

Almost too fast to see, the madman knocked Doyle down and kicked him. This man was an expert. But Doyle was somehow not dead.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Muscle-man emerging from behind his cover, a large man behind him with a gun to his head. Then Doyle was kicked again and sparks of pain shot all up his leg and he couldn't concentrate on anything for a bit. Another kick—another—

The next thing he knew, someone was shouting "Stop!" and the maniac did, and there was Cowley, telling them it had all been part of the test and they'd failed. Cowley called the maniac "Macklin" and the arrogant man "Bodie." Bodie had fared non-too-well, either, having apparently been halfway choked by his opponent.

Then Cowley said they had to finish the course. Doyle didn't know if he could even stand. For being a test, that Macklin fellow had kicked awfully hard. Doyle's heart was still racing, pain travelled up and down his legs, and the mud was an awfully nice place to stay, if only the sick feeling would leave his gut, because he didn't want to lose breakfast.

He forced himself to his feet, though, and kept going. All the way, he was trailing Bodie.

When Doyle finally staggered past the finish line, he collapsed again, ready to be done with everything for a while. It hurt to push yourself that far, to be kicked and get up and pretend you liked it.

Some part of him, however, felt just slightly better. It was very difficult to brood or concentrate on emotional pain when you hurt this much physically. It gave a sort of awful blankness, being at the end of his strength and endurance. And that was better than feeling things.

He hurt, and he knew he hadn't handled it right, and he was probably out of CI5, but for right now, the blankness welcomed him.

Bodie came and stood over him, looking critically down. "You a soldier, then?" asked Bodie. "You don't look like a soldier. You look like a bloody fool, trying to sneak up on a gunman."

_You did much better, soldier-boy,_ thought Doyle. "Least I didn't let anyone sneak up behind me."

For one instant, Bodie's eyes looked murderous. His face tightened up, and he looked as deadly as Macklin had, even though he wasn't screaming and kicking. Then Bodie turned away, and began to jog hard away.

Bollocks. Doyle had just remembered. They still had to assemble for Cowley. So he dragged himself to his feet and staggered after the dangerous-looking soldier.

#

After the talking-to, which Doyle barely listened to, Cowley assigned them another test, abseiling.

Doyle didn't think he'd make it, but kept pushing himself to try. In the end he only collapsed once and was able to get right back up. His leg hurt something awful. He hoped Macklin hadn't done any permanent damage, but the important thing now was finishing off the day on his feet. Even if it was his last day—perhaps especially then—he had to do it right.

When he drove off on his bike, he saw Bodie again, and this time, Doyle cut him off, zipping into traffic ahead of him, raising one casual finger of defiance.

A cold display of temper—not his finest moment. But at least he hadn't attacked the man physically. He felt a bit ashamed of himself afterwards, zipping through traffic when Bodie accelerated to catch him up, and then couldn't. Doyle had had no need to provoke the man further, surely...

Cowley still hadn't told them which of them had failed, so he planned to be up and get there early tomorrow. In the end, it was not so much getting up early as waking up early and lying there with his legs swelling till he gave up trying to grab some more sleep.

He got up and showered slowly, letting the heat ease some of his pain away, rubbed ointment in the huge bruises carefully, wincing and hoping it hadn't gone as deep as it felt, nothing permanent or bone damaging, and then dressed cautiously, psyching himself up for whatever madness Cowley had planned for them today. At least concentrating on all of this kept other things from his mind. And it was quite a change from work, you had to admit.

He got there early, but not early enough to avoid Bodie.

Grinning like a maniac, the dark-haired soldier pulled his car into the spot Doyle had been about to park in.

It was too close. He had to brake roughly and turn aside, nearly cracked into the car. It was too far! The man was as much of a nut as Macklin!

"You—maniac!" choked Doyle, yanking off his helmet and flinging it to the ground. He dropped his bike sideways, strode forward, and yanked Bodie's car door open.

The dark-haired man looked really shocked. Doyle got hold of his shirt to haul him out.

Bodie grabbed his hand and yanked down on his arm. Doyle broke the hold easily and gave him a heel-palm to the head.

Bodie jerked back and raised a foot, kicked. He caught Doyle mid-attack, right in the chest, and Doyle went staggering back, the whole way to the ground, sitting down hard.

Bodie erupted from the car and stood there, dangerous-looking, fists at the ready. But he didn't attack.

Doyle sat gasping on the ground. That kick knocked the wind out of him, and he couldn't get it back. He was completely helpless, expected the final blow to come any time and knock him into darkness. Instead, Bodie straightened after a moment and walked away, his strides long and angry.

Doyle could only gasp and stare after him.

#

As his anger bled away, a sense of shame washed over Doyle. He'd done it again, hadn't he? His temper was worse recently. He never knew when he'd lose it in a big way, but this had to top the cake, didn't it?

He'd get kicked out of CI5 before he even got started, all for a stupid parking space. Well. It hadn't been that so much; it had been the near accident and the arrogant Bodie's desire to get one over on him, the general stress and personal attack that that had felt like. Doyle's admittedly far-too-short fuse had lit, and off he'd gone on the attack.

It hadn't been as bad, while Syd was still alive. He'd done better at controlling his temper then, wanting the older cop's approval, wanting to be a good guy, wanting to gain the control he'd sought all his life. And when he had started to go, Syd had got him away from doing any real harm most of the time.

But now there was no one to watch his back, and no one to cover for him either. And no boxing championship to keep him from taking the black marks on his record.

Now Bodie would tell Cowley what he'd done, and he'd be out. You couldn't have someone with a fuse so short as to be nonexistent working for CI5. He'd be back to the drugs work, the records room and the cold shoulder, and boxing, day in and out.

And there goes CI5.

He deserved it. Course he did. Oh, but if only he hadn't lost his temper yet again. Slowly dragging himself to his feet, still hunched over, he made his way into the building. He managed to get himself pulled together for Cowley's speech and pretend to listen to it. But his mind was numbly going over everything the whole time.

The rest of the day, he kept expecting to be taken aside and told to get out. But it never happened. Nothing happened, except the grinding tests. Bodie was hard-faced and emotionless. He ignored Doyle, and Doyle paid the same back.

But by the end of the day...he was beginning to think Bodie hadn't told anyone. And somehow, impossibly, Doyle had got away with that egregious loss of temper.

And the next day, he knew it. Because he was still there, the same as the rest of them.

#

Each day got harder. He was a mass of bruises under his clothes, hurt to stand, hurt to sit down. How some people seemed to breeze through it, he didn't know. Well, if Bodie could handle the pain, he could too. He just didn't see how anybody could keep up the pretence that it was almost...easy.

There was nothing easy about the tests Cowley set them, the endless training.

Then they were moved unexpectedly to a barracks, without even being able to go home for extra clothes. Now they were on call at any hour of day or night that Cowley and his trainers demanded. More men quit over that, or failed. The numbers dwindled till they were at the halfway mark of the men they'd started with.

The thing he hated most about this new arrangement with the barracks wasn't being wakened at all hours. Being a police officer, he'd learned about pulling rotten shifts, making do on little sleep and catching up when you could. What he hated was the uniforms; they didn't fit. Well, they fit the largest of the men—and Bodie certainly seemed to make them work without any sign of discomfort. But for Doyle, everything was just cut wrong. It was a degrading and humiliating experience, living in strangers' clothes.

At least with a police uniform they made it your size, and you could get it altered if you needed to. Being a bit thin-waisted, Doyle had trouble fitting the size of trousers they'd provided, and had to overlap some of the extra fabric and belt them tightly. He couldn't do anything about the legs, though. They were too loose, baggy and chafing uncomfortably whenever he had to move fast.

With shirts, he had the opposite problem. T-shirts, anything soft and stretchy, were fine, but with the button-up jackets they needed outdoors, where it was getting quite cold, he had to wear a large size to fit his shoulders, and then the arms dragged too long. He had to roll them up like his dad's old overcoat, feeling disgusted with the length of the jacket, the large size. But if he wore the size smaller, it cramped his shoulders and that was no good. He very much missed his own jeans, jackets, and even his uniform.

One thing here was that he didn't have to worry about maintaining his weight. He could eat as much as he wanted and not worry about changing weight classes as a boxer. On the force, he'd been quite strictly warned he had to watch what he ate to keep himself light. He wouldn't have minded moving up a weigh bracket—be a challenge—but he'd been warned quite sternly about it.

Now none of that mattered; he could eat all the heavy, greasy food he wanted. And they certainly provided enough of it. He was ravenous; they all were after the tough tests and mock-missions Cowley set. But no matter how much he ate, he seemed to keep losing weight. The training was brutal, burning off pounds no matter how much he ate. So he hitched the stupid trousers tighter and ate his way steadily and grimly through each meal.

His martial arts training and boxing practice helped him in the sparring matches, made them manageable even when he was paired against larger opponents. Of course, he was far outmatched with Towser or Macklin, the experts, but he'd do all right and sometimes more than all right against anyone else.

He kept an eye on Bodie, watched that ruthless, emotionless fighting machine sweep a train of precise damage through his opponents. The only one he seemed to lose quickly and consistently to was Towser. Doyle couldn't figure that out; even with Macklin, Bodie lasted longer than anyone else.

Doyle was looking forward to and dreading in equal measure when he and Bodie would be paired in a fight. Remembering their brief clash over the parking space, he still felt shame every time. He didn't want to lose his temper again.

It had been above and beyond the call of duty when Bodie didn't report him that time. But he certainly shouldn't push the limit and lose his cool with Bodie again.

But he'd also probably lose the fight if he didn't tap into his anger. Bodie seemed to be getting stronger and more determined the longer the training lasted, whereas Doyle could feel something giving way inside himself under the strain of poorly fitted clothes, constant punishing training and stress. Well, he'd been pushing himself for the last six months what with boxing and everything else, and somehow it felt like he didn't have anywhere left to push. But, he kept going and somehow or other, kept up.

He was still pretty consistently number two at everything where Bodie was number one. Except for handguns, where Doyle still aced Bodie.

He saw Bodie sometimes, practicing with a handgun when he could've been resting. It made Doyle want to laugh. The man was very see-through sometimes.

They finally were paired up when Doyle was feeling pretty knackered. He figured he'd last three minutes, tops. Mr. Muscle-man didn't have more than a few inches on Doyle, but he had at least twenty more pounds of solid muscle. He might've only had fifteen when they started, but he seemed, impossibly, to bulk up with the training, whilst Doyle was losing weight steadily.

They faced each other, circling, sizing each other up, and then went for the attack at the same instant. Doyle had a pretty good idea of what he'd be facing, having been watching Bodie surreptitiously for a while. But even so it was a surprise when he found himself facing the mixture of a brick wall and a hurricane.

Bodie surged forward, keeping his limbs tight to his body, delivering blow after powerful blow. Doyle was hard pressed to dance away from them and get in a few good kicks and punches of his own. These landed with thuds on the heavy muscle, but seemed to make no impact.

_Just don't lose your temper, don't lose your temper,_ he told himself, as a stinging blow caught him upside the head and he felt the quick spike of anger and frustration that told him he was close to losing it. He threw himself into the fight to prevent it, delivering precision hits with the ferocity of a street fighter fighting for his life. He sped up the fight, moving faster to avoid Bodie's blows; they packed a wallop, but Doyle was faster.

Channelling his anger instead of letting it get to him was working, just like in a good boxing match. He found himself getting into the zone. Instead of thinking about how long he'd last or how tired he was he lived moment to moment, just watching for the next blow, the next opening to attack.

He was vaguely aware that it was lasting a while, that the others had stopped what they were doing and gathered around to watch. Doyle was in the zone and couldn't pay any attention to them.

Something grabbed his shoulder, and he whirled to face this new attacker. Macklin knocked his blow away easily; Doyle didn't even get near him.

"I said, that's enough. It's a tie. Back off, Doyle."

Doyle dropped his fists, and stood panting. From the lively interest in the eyes of those surrounding them, it had been a good match from a viewer's perspective.

He'd wanted to win, but holding his own—that would do, against someone like Bodie. Would do quite nicely, in fact.

He turned to offer a handshake, to be polite about it. And he realised just how far he'd pushed himself. He was only still standing from adrenaline. He'd pushed himself harder than any time in the last year, and he hurt from each hit Bodie had landed. But he'd held his own.

The sweat-covered Bodie was grinning at him, his fierce concentration replaced by a cheeky grin, like an overgrown kid. Bodie took Doyle's hand and gave it a quick pump in his own sweaty mitt, then slapped a hand down on Doyle's shoulder.

It stung, because he'd landed hard there the other day, but Doyle scowled instead of winced.

"You're not bad for a string bean!" said Bodie.

Doyle knocked the hand off. "Who are you calling—"

"Oh, relax, it's a compliment." Smirking, Bodie strode away, still buoyant in his step, looking as strong and fit as he had when he started.

Doyle scowled after him, panting. His body was trying to decide between the belief that the fight wasn't over yet, because he hadn't pinned anyone or been pinned, and the need to collapse and sleep for a few hours.

In the end, he settled on the latter and snuck off to the loo, and slept sitting up in one of the stalls for a few minutes to regain his strength. Then he was back at it, this time with one of the other recruits.

No rest for the wicked. These trainers were ferocious.

#

He'd been keeping his temper pretty well, except for that time with Bodie in the parking lot. But, hard-pressed on every side—tests, clothes, uncomfortable schedule, aches and pains, and the teasing which had started—it grew impossible to keep bottled.

It wasn't 'teasing' exactly, but that old malicious stuff—rumours flying about his life, and people trying to wind him up. He didn't know what about himself drew this sort of things. Did he seem weak? Or possibly, too strong? He was clinging to his second-place status, but only barely some days. Stupid jockeying for position, then. Either way it made him sort of hate the human race some days. Especially when it worked, when he lost his temper, snapped or punched at someone. Or punched the wall, though that at least didn't hurt anyone but himself.

He couldn't seem to keep himself from calling Cowley on things he thought were too dangerous. That outrageous stunt with the bicycle wheels. Could've taken someone's head clean off.

He also snapped at people who wouldn't leave him alone. One day at lunch he even cracked and told Cowley off about the clothes that didn't fit. The pale-eyed man, with his almost nonexistent lashes, simply stared levelly at Doyle and then told him to get back to his table, or leave if he didn't like the accommodations.

Doyle went back to his table, but he was too angry to eat, his hands shaking, his jaw clenching. He was frightened, as usual, by his anger when he couldn't control it. And very glad he hadn't hit Cowley. That would've been the end for certain.

Everyone was staring at him, even a fascinated-looking Bodie, forking food up steadily into his mouth, watching as though it were all a great show.

#

Doyle sat on the wooden chair outside Cowley's office. (Like waiting at the bloody head teacher's!). He held his head in his hands, trying to regain his breath. His shoulder still hurt badly, but everything else was a blur, obscured by the agony of his shoulder and the rage he was still winding down from.

He'd been in a match with Macklin, he recalled, though it already felt farther and farther away, obscured as though by a blue mist.

Then Macklin had said THAT—had said it was his fault, Syd Parker died because Doyle hadn't fought hard enough.

True or not, it had made Doyle snap. He'd attacked like a madman.

And then he didn't remember anything else for a while, but the sudden sickening crunch of his shoulder, and someone pinning him, and Macklin yanking it back into its socket.

It still hurt something fierce and dreadful, and had the whole way here. Bodie, of all people, had seemed angry on his behalf, and dragged him here, with dire words to Macklin on his behalf, though Doyle could no longer remember exactly what they had been.

He felt sick and drained and ashamed, as he always did after a particularly awful burst of anger, and just wanted to forget all of it. Probably be kicked out. Well, at least he wouldn't have to deal with bloody Macklin again. His feet itched to be jumped to, and his hands clenched, wanting to land just one more good blow on Macklin for invoking that sacred shame. It was Doyle's weight to be carried alone, and no one else got to sneer. Maybe it had been his fault; maybe it hadn't. Either way, no one got to bring up Syd like that.

He could hear voices dimly inside Cowley's office. He probably could've moved his chair enough to listen in, if it hadn't been for the guard. Not that he really cared what they said about him. It was probably all true, anyway.

Why had Bodie interfered? Doyle had needed to deck Macklin for that, dislocated shoulder or no. He should be heading back there right now.

Another part of him just wanted to curl up in a ball and not do anything for the next six weeks.

"Doyle, you're up." Something plucked his sleeve, and he looked up to see a surprisingly disturbed-looking Bodie regarding him. "Old man's ready to see you."

Doyle moved like a sleepwalker into the small, almost tiny room. Cowley sat alert-looking behind a battered desk.

"Not you, Bodie," said Cowley. "Shut the door." The door shut and Doyle was alone with the boss. "Doyle, do you want to stay at CI5?" asked Cowley.

Doyle blinked, not having expected that question. "Yes sir."

"What about Macklin? He said something that upset you, didn't he?"

Doyle swallowed, trying to gather his scattered wits. "Well sir if he was here I'd try to kill him again. But he isn't, so I'll probably get over it. I usually do. I'm never going to have a perfect grasp on my temper. And if anybody says something about my partner, they'll pay for it," he added in a bit of defiance.

Cowley just nodded. "Of course." He glanced down at his papers again. "It's a big thing to lose your partner. You'll be bringing that with you into CI5, I suppose."

"Well it's not just that he died. It's that I couldn't—that I didn't—"

"Go on, man," said Cowley, a hint of impatience in his stern expression.

"I couldn't save him, sir." Doyle's voice was beginning to break. He shut up quickly.

Cowley took over the conversation. "No, Doyle, you couldn't. But will your dying as well accomplish anything? Or do you owe it to him—and to yourself—to stay alive and help as many people as you can? Your unique skills and determination—and the fact that you care about people—is something we need, desperately. Not just in the police force, though you can still do some good in the world if you decide to go back there. But here, you can help protect not just a patch of land, but all of England. From bombers, maniacs, drug runners. Everything that destroys every innocent who dies because no one is there to protect them. Doyle, you can walk away now, or stay, and know you are a part of that."

Stay? Do some good? He actually had a choice? "I'd like to stay, sir. I would. I just can't—forget."

"You don't have to forget, lad. You don't have to forget. In time, it will ease. It will stop plaguing your every thought. You'll be able to laugh again—and you haven't, have you, not in years?_" _Cowley's expression was sympathetic, as if he saw and really understood.

It was dreadful to feel so see-through, so dreadfully near tears. "I could've—I should've done more," he managed to croak.

"Yes, we all should have done more. There are times in every man's life, when he looks back, and says, 'If only I'd known.' But you don't, no one does, and you have to accept that bad things happen and you'll never stop them all. Stop the ones you can, with CI5, and I promise you, your life will not be lived in vain. Even if it feels like it now, you will one day look back and say, 'I'm glad I decided to live, glad I made a difference.'"

That just didn't sound realistic. "I don't think I'll ever say that, sir. I don't think I ever have or will."

"Och, that's the darkness talking, lad. You'll find your way past it. Now, you've to see the doctor. He'll check you over. I can't quite like the look of you. When that's through, you can talk to the psych doctor and if he passes you, you can sign your papers. I'll have you talk to him regularly, mind, till you're feeling better. There's no shame in that. Oh—and Doyle?"

"Yes?"

"Have you any objection to Bodie?"

"Bodie? No, he's all right. Why?"

"I thought I might team the two of you. I think you'll balance each other."

For a moment, he couldn't breathe right. Then it passed, he got the words out. "I—I can't have a—another partner."

"Och, not a partner, exactly. Just a temporary team." Cowley sounded reassuring. "Someone to work with for the time being. It's especially important to have someone to watch your back, and to look after his, when you're first out of training. You catch each other's mistakes."

"But only temporarily?"

"Yes, Doyle. Temporarily. I have teams, but I also have agents who work alone. You've no need to worry—I won't make you stay in a team you'd rather not. Only for the beginning."

"I guess that's all right, sir."

It would be all right, if it was only temporary. Besides, you weren't likely to get overly attached to a Bodie.

He made it out of the room somehow, still walking on his own two feet. Bodie sat on the wooden chair, which he'd moved. He was looking full of himself and pleased.

Even with a mixture of zombie-like exhaustion, shock, and a still-aching shoulder, Doyle's brain clicked in to recognise that smirking look. And Bodie had moved the chair.

"Eavesdropper," Doyle said, and brushed past Bodie down the hall, heading towards the infirmary. It would be good to get this shoulder looked at, even if it was an order.

Footsteps followed him. Jaunty, buoyant footsteps. "Off to the medics, old son?"

"Yes," said Doyle, wondering at this man's nerve. Just because they would be—temporary—partners. No, not even that. Co-workers, that was all. "What do you want?" Doyle asked without turning.

"Have to keep an eye on you, don't I? Don't know who we might run into."

"Macklin," agreed Doyle, hearing the low growl of that word, the anger still in his voice. He hoped he didn't see Macklin for a day or two, because he didn't know how he'd handle it. Probably get his other shoulder dislocated, but it might be worth it to bloody that arse's nose again.

He owed Bodie a thank-you didn't he? "I appreciate—"

"Don't mention it," said Bodie quickly. "No need, between—temporary—partners."

Doyle shot him a quick, suspicious look. Bodie sounded so close to laughing, but what about? It must be something of his own, nothing to do with Doyle. Doyle nodded and said, "Yeah," and they walked down the hall that way, Bodie for some reason still following him.

"I wonder if this means our training is over," said Doyle, as he reached the infirmary.

"I expect with Cowley, it never ends."

"Regrets?" Doyle pulled the medic's door open and glanced back at Bodie.

Bodie shook his head. "It'll be interesting, anyway, mate. Don't break anything in there." He gave Doyle a wink, and grinned at Doyle's surprised look, just before the door shut between them.

Strange man. But that was good. Doyle certainly couldn't get overly attached to someone so odd. Nor could he feel overly responsible for someone who could beat him at most of Cowley's tests.

Doyle began to tell the medic about his shoulder.

It took longer than he thought it would, because the doctor said he needed to rest his shoulder for a day or two, but then added that Doyle had managed to catch walking pneumonia and needed to be admitted into the hospital right now.

End


End file.
